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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088979">TMA Hurt/Comfort Week Collection</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationoverload97/pseuds/imaginationoverload97'>imaginationoverload97</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Jon whump, S5 spoilers, TMA Hurt/Comfort Week, TMAHCweek, tw: anxiety attack, tw: panic attack</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:02:06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,949</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26088979</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationoverload97/pseuds/imaginationoverload97</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of my contributions to the TMA Hurt/Comfort week event on tumblr.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>96</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Knowledge is All We Have</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 1!!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The end of the world is here, and all Jon can do is hide here in this cabin with Martin. He knows they cannot hide here forever, but he is willing to try, even if for just a little while longer. He knows... well that’s the problem isn’t it? He Knows. He Knows everything that happening outside the illusion of safety the walls provide. He Knows the fear, the agony that he has brought to the entire world.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He Knows about the woman Martin spoke to at the shop in the village. She had smiled when she handed him his receipt, asking politely if he was in area on holiday. Martin had laughed, saying it was something like that. Now, she was trapped in what used to be her flat above the shop, consumed in an endless flame. He Knows about the farmer down the lane, whose cows Martin always enjoyed observing. He Knows that he is now running, always running, away from the Hunt. He is prey and there is nothing Jon could do to save him from his inevitable fate. Jon hates that as The Archivist all he can do is watch. He hates even more that somewhere deep down, he enjoys it.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin is doing his best. He is trying to give Jon the space he says he needs, give him time to come to terms with the fact that he just ended the world. But he will never Understand, and for this Jon is grateful. In this new world where rules do not apply and each moment is more terrifying, Jon is grateful that Martin is protected from the full force of it. However, he drowning under the weight of everyone’s stories. The woman in the shop and the farmer are not unique. He Knows the fates of everyone, who they were and what they are now reduced to. The best parts of humanity are gone, everyone is now just terror and fear. When Martin leaves, trying to offer the space he thinks Jon needs, Jon often finds himself on his knees, the heels of his shaking hands pressed into his eyes, trying and failing to stem the flow of knowledge that he cannot stop any more than he could have stopped the tide from coming in, back when things like that still happened.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin had returned during one of the first of these episodes, before Jon had acclimated and learned to hide what he Knew, and he had hurriedly set down the mug of tea in his hands and knelt beside him.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon? Jon, what’s wrong?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The best Jon could offer was a low moan, more of an instinctive response to the worried tone than a coherent answer. There was just </span>
  <em>
    <span>so much</span>
  </em>
  <span> information, he didn’t even have the brain space to comprehend what was being said, just the fact that Martin was scared. It triggered some last human instinct within him, the desire to respond, to say it was okay, anything to remove that fear from the one person he had privately resolved should not fall under the fear that had taken the rest of the world.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“O-okay, let’s, ah, let’s get you onto the sofa. Come on.” Gently, Martin lifted Jon to a semblance of a standing position, shuffling them backwards onto the cushions in a movement Jon barely registered.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he isn’t helping, limbs moving stiffly, awkwardly, and relying too much on Martin for support. But before he can put together what to do, how to help, he is lost again in the tide, thoughts swallowed by pain and fear and suffering too great to imagine, and yet, he doesn’t have to. It plays out in his mind’s eye, and he can </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the pain, the fear. It’s not enough that he can see it, the Eye needs him to feel it too, to drink in the cocktail of terror as if it were the </span>
  <span>sustenance</span>
  <span> keeping him alive.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That’s the part that gets to him the most. All the horror, pain, gore, and terror, everything that should overwhelm him and shut him down with the absolute monstrosity of it all, and he is drinking it in. It feels right, natural, and in some ways he can’t get enough. After so long subsisting on dry, stale statements from the archives, this buffet of fresh terror feels like a feast.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As the tide recedes, he lets out a dry sob, and he is not sure if it is of relief or painful, aching loss. He finds he is on the couch, folded against Martin, and the fire is crackling in the fireplace. Martin has his arms around him, trying in vain to offer comfort and support, to ground him. Taking a deep breath, Jon sits up, pulling away ever so slightly to take his own weight.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Is- is it over?” Martin asks hesitantly.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, I think- I believe so.” Jon lies, unable to fully describe how even now he still Knows and will never fully stop.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Delicately, as if the slightest touch could shatter him, Martin takes a blanket and wraps it around Jon’s shoulders. “It’s that bad?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon inhales, a deep shuddering sigh, before replying. “It’s... it’s everything, all of it. I’m The Archivist, and the Beholding wants to... to reward me, I guess. I can see everything, every detail of every person and what’s happening to them.” He pulls the blanket tighter around himself, the shaking in his hands fading, but not gone yet.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Some reward,” Martin snorts.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I- I wish I could agree. But it just, it feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>right</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and- and I hate it more than anything.” Jon crumples under the blanket, shame and guilt crushing him.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“None of that,” Martin rebukes gently, pulling him closer. “This was Elias’ fault. He tricked you. You never wanted this, never even dreamed of doing it. You were just a piece in a much larger game.” He picks up a still warm cup of tea from the coffee table and hands it to him. “Here, take this, it might help.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon takes it, hands finally steady, savoring the warmth and comfort, even as he knows it cannot last.</span>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Arrow to the Knee</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 2 of TMA H/C week!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Entering the domain of the Slaughter is, well, “a lot” would be a very simple way of putting it. The sounds of war, of violence and pain and death, drift on the breeze, drowning everything else except the distant bagpipes that seem to preside over the whole scene. There’s dust and dirt in the air, making the whole domain look like it is coated in fog, but there is no moisture to the haze, only dirt and blood and bullets. The air smells of iron and copper, of spilled blood and fear. Of course, Martin notices all of these at once, so to try and separate them from each other in his mind is impossible. It’s all he can do to try and keep a hold of Jon’s hand, even if every nerve in his body is telling him to sprint, to get away from the carnage. There’s fear and terror everywhere, but nowhere more so than in his own mind. The world reduces to what is directly in front of him, a stream of “Shitshitshitshitshit” grounding him to the fact that he is still here, even if he is in danger, and then Jon is yelling for him not to let go and leading him towards an abandoned building.  </p><p>They stumble into the old building, one that isn’t caught in the middle of an active battle. Martin hits the ground, panting. His terror is overwhelming, but he makes a point to ask, </p><p>“Are you alright?” </p><p>Jon pauses, trying to find a sense of The Archivist among all the other names, stories, and sensations that are crowding his mind. “Yes, I think so,” he says with some surprise. Then his face crumples abruptly in pain, and he collapses to the floor. </p><p>“Jon!” Martin hurries over, leftover adrenaline lending him speed. </p><p>Jon has his teeth clenched, hand hovering over his right thigh. </p><p>“You’re hurt.” Martin accuses, even as he gently moves the hand away to look at the wound. </p><p>“Yes, it would seem so.” Jon grits out. “Suppose the adrenaline kept me from feeling it.” </p><p>Looking at the torn trouser leg, it’s not difficult to deduce what’s happened. “Looks like you took a bullet to the leg. Still, it’s clean and there’s an exit wound, so not as bad as it could’ve been.” </p><p>Jon barks a laugh. “Lucky me.” </p><p>Marin heads back to his pack, which is where he dropped it by the door. “Lucky for you, I packed a medicine kit. It should have some gauze and bandages in it.” </p><p>As Martin gets to work cleaning and bandaging the injury, he’s worried by how quiet Jon is, as well as the growing pool of blood on the floor. </p><p>“Stay with me,” Martin coaxes every time Jon goes quiet. “Come on, talk to me.” </p><p>“What would you like me to talk about?” Jon laughs airily. “I can’t imagine you want to hear what the Eye is trying to compel me to record right now.” </p><p>Martin is getting desperate, and it shows in his voice. “I dunno, anything. Just- just don’t pass out.” </p><p>Jon lets out a breathy chuckle. “I don’t know if I even can pass out anymore.” </p><p>“Well, don’t test it then. There’s bullets everywhere, and- and screaming, and I don’t know what will happen if you pass out-” Martin takes a deep, shuddering breath, clearly fighting down panic. </p><p>“Okay,” Jon consoles, weakly patting Martin’s arm. “Okay, calm down. I won’t pass out, I promise.” </p><p> </p><p>Martin finishes bandaging the wound. “That should hold for a bit, but it’ll be hell to walk on all the way to London.” </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Jon tells him in a way that seems to be meant as reassuring. Mostly, he just comes across as tired. “It doesn’t have to last all the way to the Penopticon, just to the edge of the Slaughter.” </p><p>“….why?” Martin asks suspiciously. </p><p>“The- the entities were all brought into our reality. But- but they all serve the Beholding. It’s… pardon the pun, but it’s overseeing everything that goes on. As the- as the avatar of the Eye, they can’t- can’t permanently hurt me. It… won’t let them.” </p><p>By the time Jon finishes explaining, his face is completely ashen. His breaths have gone uneven, having to stop to breathe more and more frequently, until he could only get out a word or two between them. </p><p>“So, just to be clear,” Martin says slowly, “We just have to get you out of this place, an active war zone, with a bullet hole in your leg, and then everything will be fine?” </p><p>“Yep.” Jon says, voice strained even with that one word. “And it would probably be best to go sooner versus later, what with me losing blood and all.” </p><p>Martin looks him over, not liking what he sees in the slightest. Jon is pale and trembling, and looks about as up to the task of getting through a war zone as he is of reversing the apocalypse single-handedly. But, he has a point. Waiting will not make things any better, and if they wait too long it could make things infinitely worse. With a deep sigh, Martin concedes. </p><p>“All right. Come on then, up you get.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Home Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know I'm a little early for day 3, but I'll be busy tomorrow. Enjoy the early update!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Jon staggered back into the Institute, Rosie didn’t even bat an eye. As far as she was concerned, the Head Archivist had been travelling for work, and everyone took the long flights differently. She smiled pleasantly, asked how his trip had been, and graciously took his half-mumbled, half-grunted response in stride. She wished him well as he staggered down the hall, his luggage almost seeming to overbalance him, not even questioning why he still had his suitcase with him. People who worked in the archives always seemed to be a different breed than those in the rest of the Institute, and Rosie never held it against them. The world was plenty big enough, after all. </p>
<p>Jon was setting his bag down underneath his desk before he realized he was back at the Institute and not Georgie’s flat. Looking around at the familiar mess, he realized he couldn’t stay, not until he knew it was safe. But, the thought of picking his suitcase back up, of trying to hail a cab, it all seemed too much effort. His whole body was trembling with exhaustion, and the pounding of his head made anything besides collapsing into his chair seem like climbing Everest. So, that is exactly what he did. Almost as if his strings had been cut, he slumped boneless into his chair, head coming to rest on top of the desk. Just a minute or two... </p>
<p> </p>
<p>His dreams of the entities merged with warped memories being followed, kidnapped, and hurt to ensure his sleep less than restful. So, it was not surprising that the door opening startled him badly. So badly, in fact, that his hard flinch shoved his wheeled office chair out from under him and ended up unceremoniously dumping him on the floor under his desk. </p>
<p>“Jon! I’m so sorry, I didn’t know I would startle you that badly. Are you okay?” </p>
<p>Martin’s worried voice soothed his frayed nerves a bit, even as he struggled to get himself upright. The world seemed to be a bit off, not in any way he could identify, but enough to make sitting up and then standing more difficult than it should be. Before he knew it, Martin was there, setting a cup of tea on the desk and helping him to his feet. </p>
<p>“You alright?” Martin asked, looking him over. “You look terrible.” </p>
<p>Being upright is not doing Jon any favors. His vision is slowly fading to black, and he’s pretty sure Martin just asked him a question. He vaguely hums what his thinks is an affirmation before everything goes black. </p>
<p>Not much time seemed to have passed when he regained awareness. He found himself sitting in his chair again, Martin kneeling in front of him, hands on his shoulders. He looked very worried, and his mouth was moving. </p>
<p>“-an you hear me? Jon?” </p>
<p>“I- I can hear you.” Jon managed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” </p>
<p>“Thank goodness,” Martin sighed in relief. “Although, I’m not surprised. You look absolutely terrible.” </p>
<p>Jon huffed a laugh. </p>
<p>“Why did you come back here, instead of going home? You’re in no fit state to do any sort of work.” </p>
<p>Jon paused, trying to remember making the decision to come to the Institute. “I... I don’t know. I think Daisy just brought me here. Probably the safest place to make sure I don’t get kidnapped again?” </p>
<p>Martin’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. “What! Kidnapped? How? When? Why didn’t anyone-” </p>
<p>His string of questions was abruptly cut off when Jon leaned forward and started coughing. Jon hadn’t noticed until now, but his throat was unbelievable dry and painful. </p>
<p>“Right, sorry. Let’s get you taken care of first, questions can wait. Come on, if I can’t call you a cab, might as well let you use your cot.” </p>
<p>He helped him stand up, hands steadying him as he swayed until the dizziness receded. </p>
<p>“Once you get settled, I’ll check your temperature. You feel a bit warm, and airplanes always seem to carry some kind of bug.” </p>
<p>As they head towards the door, it opens in front of them to reveal Elias. </p>
<p>“Ah, hello Jon. I thought it best not to announce myself, in case you were recording a statement. But I see Martin is here distracting you.” </p>
<p>Martin huffed. </p>
<p>“Not to worry Martin, I assure you Jon will be back to himself in no time. All he needs to get back into the flow of things here. Now, if you could just give us a moment...” </p>
<p>Jon felt Martin tense. </p>
<p>“You know what? No.” </p>
<p>“I’m sorry?” </p>
<p>“No.” Martin enunciated. “Jon is exhausted, sick, and just finished running all over the globe for you. What he needs is a lie down, some tea, and to sleep for about a day and a half. The last thing he needs is to be ‘back into the flow of things’. So, I am taking him down to the cot in the storage room, and whatever you need can surely wait another day or two.” </p>
<p>Elias, to his credit, looked a bit taken aback. Then he looked over Jon a bit more carefully before seeming to come to a decision. “Very well. Jon, feel better soon. I look forward to hearing what you found in your travels.” </p>
<p>Then, just as suddenly as he had arrived, he left. </p>
<p>Jon, for his part, had been completely passive during the exchange. His head was throbbing, and the way everything was gently pulsing wasn’t helping matters. He only realized his head had come to rest on Martin’s shoulder when the taller man jostled him gently. </p>
<p>“Come on, let’s get you comfortable.” </p>
<p> </p>
<p>In relatively short order, Jon found himself in the pajamas from his suitcase and under a blanket on the cot he had come to think of as Martin’s, though technically he had been the one to set it up. Closing his eyes did wonders for his headache, and he hoped that Martin would just let him sleep. </p>
<p>“Jon?” </p>
<p>No such luck. But then when did he have any luck anyway? </p>
<p>“Jon? Before you go to sleep I want to take your temperature. Is that alright?” </p>
<p>He hummed an affirmation, then winced as the cold plastic slipped under his tongue. </p>
<p>A minute later it beeped and then was removed. “Thirty-nine degrees. Yeah, you definitely need to rest.” </p>
<p>Eyes still closed, Jon silently agrees. </p>
<p>“Well, rest up. I’ll be back to check on you later.” Martin smooths the hair from Jon’s forehead, then leaves hastily as if to avoid any comment about it. </p>
<p>Jon’s last thought before he falls asleep is that it felt nice.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Come Home</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Day 4</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>“I saw some good cows today.” Martin said pleasantly, setting down Jon’s mug of tea on the bedside table before settling back into his chair with his own. “There were even some babies, and they were too adorable. Most were hiding behind their mothers, but one felt quite adventurous and came up to the fence and let me pet it. Its nose was so soft, it was like stroking velvet.”</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Jon, predictably, said nothing, and Martin fell into a musing silence.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Why?</em> He thought selfishly. <em>It wasn’t fair. It was Elias’ fault the world had ended. Why did Jon have to bear the brunt of fixing it?</em></p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He still remembered that moment. That painful moment where utter joy and abject terror met. He had watched the Penopticon crumble and seen the wave flow out of it, restoring the world to what he remembered it to be. But, as he had turned to Jon to congratulate him, to share the joy of their victory, an icy shard of terror had struck his heart. Instead of celebrating, Jon had his eyes closed, knuckles white as he gripped the sides of his head. Martin, caught in the confusing whirlwind of joy, relief, terror, and dread, had been rooted to the spot and could do nothing but watch as Jon folded like a house of cards and hit the ground with a dull thud.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Now they were here, back where everything had started, at the cottage. Jon was in the bed, and Martin had pulled a chair up next to him. He hadn’t regained consciousness in the three days since the world had restarted. Martin had taken to talking to him, hoping that it would coax him back from wherever he was now. Whenever he made himself tea, he would make Jon a cup too. The first time had been out of habit, but he kept doing it. The process brought him comfort, and the more familiarity around him, the more likely Jon would wake up. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He ignored the clawing doubt at the edges of his mind. Thoughts that if Jon wasn’t really human and hadn’t been for a long time before the end of the world, then what did banishing the entity that he was connected to do to him? Thoughts that threatened to undo him, to leave him in despair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <em>No. I can’t afford to think like that. He’s alive; he’s breathing. So, he has to come back, right? I need him to come back.</em>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Come back to me, please Jon.” He didn’t quite realize it, but he’d whispered the plea aloud. Now that he’d started though, he couldn’t stop. “Come back. There’s so much left for you to see, Jon. The cows are back, and the grass and the trees are back too. Daisy and Basira miss you. I miss you. You <em>can’t </em>leave me here, okay? Sasha left, and Tim left.” He blinked back tears. “So you can’t. I forbid it Jonathan Sims. It would be so <em>unbelievably </em>selfish of you to fix the world, then leave me here in it alone. Do you hear me? If you love me, if you ever loved me, then you’ll come back to me.” He closed his eyes, letting the tears flow soundlessly down his face.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A soft whisper disrupted the quiet of his grief. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Martin?”</p>
</div>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Don't hate me!!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. I'll Be Here</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Better late than never!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>As they trudge through the wilderness after the realm of the Stranger, Jon resisted the urge to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. It wouldn’t do any good, he was sure, but the urge was there nonetheless. Focusing the power of the Beholding, as it turned out, was not something even he could do without some consequence it seemed. His head felt like it was being split in two, and his brain was vaporizing as NotSasha had done. He wished this Archivist business came with a manual of sorts. Even a list of warnings would be helpful.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No Archivist has ever been as successful are you have been,</span>
  </em>
  <span> the Eye told him.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Not exactly the help he had wanted.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your temperature is 38.5.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>While marginally more helpful, Jon did not exactly have the means to do anything with this either.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It was several long seconds before Jon realized that Martin had stopped walking. He stopped, turning back. “Yes? What’s wrong?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin looked cross. “I should be asking you that. You look terrible.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon tried for a laugh, but it just ended up being a snort. “The end of the world isn’t exactly the time for a beauty </span>
  <span>regimen</span>
  <span>.” </span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin did not seem deterred. “You look like you’re in pain.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin took a long step forward, until their noses were </span>
  <span>practically</span>
  <span> touching. “Like hell it is.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon deflated. If there was ever a time for the Archivist to need a break, surely this was it.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“My- my head. I don’t think summoning the Eye is something to be attempted lightly...” he paused, kneading his eyes in the doomed effort he had been resisting. “or often.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He lost time while he was standing there, trying to take comfort in the darkness behind his eyelids.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>A gentle touch on his arm made him jump.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, let’s take a rest.” Martin’s tone was gentle, soft, as nothing else in the world was anymore.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That alone made Jon want to just dissolve. Let someone else take the lead for a while. He didn’t protest as he was guided to sit on what feels like a blanket. His eyes were still closed, the darkness his refuge from the blinding pain.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The children would not agree.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>And just like that, his illusion of safety, of being alone, was shattered.  His eyes snapped open, and he winced at the light. His head throbbed, and he couldn’t stop himself sucking in a pained breath.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Easy now,” Martin soothed. He smoothed his fingers through Jon’s hair, matted and greasy as it was. “Do you want to lay down?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Mutely, Jon nodded. Anything to relieve the nauseating pain thrumming through his skull.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin sat down, then gently guided him down until his head rested on his thigh.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Why?” Jon croaked.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Because he’s scared.</span>
  </em>
  <span> The Eye volunteered. </span>
  <em>
    <span>He’s terrified. You’re the Archivist, the most powerful human left in this new world, and without you he is vulnerable.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon flinched, </span>
  <span>Knowing</span>
  <span> it was true. He tried to sit up, to be strong. Martin deserved that at least for coming with him, for being subjected to the apocalypse that was all Jon’s fault, for still staying with him, for being his boyfriend despite everything. And then another thought struck him. What if Martin only stayed because he was the Archivist? Because he knew it was the only way to get through the end of the world in one piece? Jon could hear his grandmother’s voice inside his head.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>People only stay when they want something from you. Never forget that Jonathan.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your temperature is 39.1.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Everyone leaves eventually.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>He’s scared. You don’t even have to compel him to stay. He knows without you he is in danger.</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The memories of childhood mixed with the information from the Eye, leaving Jon’s head pounding and doubt sitting heavy in his chest. He heard a dry sob and realized that he was shaking. Slowly, as if from underwater, he began to make out Martin’s voice.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“-okay. I’m right here. I’m not leaving you. Everything is okay.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Martin?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon? Hey, hey, are you back with me?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I-I think so.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>The relief in Martin’s voice is palpable. “Good. You were gone for a minute there. How are you feeling?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon hums in response, afraid if he tries to speak that only tears will escape.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright. Take your time. The apocalypse will still be here when you’re ready.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What about you?” Jon asks, voice breaking in the middle. “Where will you be?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Right here, where I’ll always be.”</span>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. That's Just Unfortunate</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Artifact storage was always a dangerous place, even for those that knew the place well. Sasha had told many stories of things that were down there, close calls that she had never fully gotten used to. So, when Tim heard that Jon had gone down there, something about following up on a statement, he knew there was a chance that something like this could happen. However, that knowledge had not prepared him for what he actually found.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon was in his office, still relatively bare from where they had cleaned it of Gertrude’s things. However, instead of recording statements, manually or by scanning, organizing files, or anything else Tim had seen him do since being promoted to Head Archivist, he simply sat in his chair, cradling his arm.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looked up, startled. “Tim?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, boss. Heard you went down to artifact storage. How’d it </span>
  <span>go</span>
  <span>? Spooky?” he teased, only really half-joking.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon just looked at him blankly. “Why- why would I have gone to artifact storage?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Tim frowned in concern. “You said it was for a statement. You were following up on something they mentioned.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Statement?” Now Jon looked properly confused. “I thought we were researching Jurgen Leitner, that weird guy with the library?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Now properly concerned, Tim stepped into the room, quickly coming to stand next Jon. Up close, he could see the blank stare more resembled the glassy look of a fever which, coupled with the flush high on Jon’s cheeks, was very worrisome.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon, are you alright? You don’t look well.” Which was ridiculous. Tim had spoken to Jon this morning, and he had been perfectly fine. They had even gone over some of his follow-ups on a few statements, and Jon had been razor-sharp. For him to be this out of it now was... well it wasn’t natural.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon looked over at him, still cradling his arm, Tim realized. “Tim? I- I don’t think I’m feeling well.” Then his eyes rolled back and he folded.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sliding on his knees, Tim barely managed to intercept him before he hit his head. Cursing, he cradled Jon’s head, lightly tapping his cheek.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Shit. Jon? Jon, come on. Wakey wakey.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>For a long moment, there was no reaction. This was when Tim noticed how hot his skin really was.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon, come on. You’re scaring me now,” Tim begged.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon moaned softly before slowly opening his eyes.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“There you go, knew you could do it.” Tim forced a worried smile. “How’re you feeling?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <span>Mmm</span>
  <span>,” Jon hummed. “Shouldn’t have... was an accident... Didn’t watch were I was going”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Right. That’s a good sign.” Tim quickly texted Sasha, asking if she knew of any artifacts that caused fever and confusion, before turning his attention back to Jon.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright boss,” he said, forcing a lightness he didn’t feel into his voice. “Let’s see if we can’t get you more comfortable than lying on the floor of your office. I think I remember seeing you set up a cot in one of the storage rooms?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon didn’t respond, his eyes having slipped closed.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright. I’ll take that as a yes.” Tim knew he was just talking to himself at this point, but he didn’t care.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>As gently as he could, he lifted Jon into a fireman’s carry, then started towards where he thought Jon had set up his cot.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>By the time he found the right storage room, Tim was sweating. Whether it was from the exertion or the fiery heat that was Jon’s entire body, he didn’t care to speculate. Gently, he laid him down, ignoring the blanket neatly folded and tucked under the cot. More heat was the last thing they needed right now.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Once he had Jon situated, noting that he was still unconscious, he checked his phone. Thankfully, Sasha had replied. Quickly scanning through the wall of text, Tim gathered that there was one artifact that had the effects he was looking at. It was an old vase. Apparently, just being in the room with it was enough to cause a feverish illness after several hours. However, Sasha recalled that touching it made the symptoms much worse. The effects should wear off once out of the room, but she hadn’t tested it after touch.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Great. </span>
  <span>Juuuust</span>
  <span> great.” Tim sighed. “Couldn’t stay out of trouble for long, huh boss?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Now that he knew this wasn’t lethal, Tim resigned himself to spending the rest of the day by Jon’s side. This was technically part of his job, right? Making sure his boss didn’t bite the dust due to a careless mistake? Regardless, he found some towels in the break room and used those to make a kind of cold compress that he switched out periodically to make sure the fever didn’t cook Jon from the inside out before whatever this was faded.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Sometimes Jon would mutter incoherently, snippets of what sounded like statements or sometimes just syllables jammed together with no words distinguishable at all. Other times he </span>
  <span>tossed and turned,</span>
  <span> face scrunched in pain. As the day wore on into late afternoon and evening, the fever seemed to lessen. The pain lines smoothed out, and Jon looked more like he was actually resting than locked in unconsciousness. Tim sighed in relief. They might get through this after all.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Around 7pm, Tim looked up from where he had been scrolling on his phone to see Jon looking back at him.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Hey! How’re you feeling?” Tim asked, quickly putting his phone away.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“What-” Jon’s voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “What’s going on? What am I doing here?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“You had a bit of a run-in with a nasty vase in artifact storage. Been going through it most of the day at this point.” Tim explained. “Now that you’re </span>
  <span>coherent</span>
  <span>, it might be best to get you home.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon sat up slowly, then swung his legs over the side of the cot. “Yes, I rather think that would be a good idea.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on then,” Tim said, offering his hand. “Let’s get your things. I’ll drive you home.”</span>
  
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Numb</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This one is based off my own experience in college of breaking down under stress and anxiety. I don't claim this experience is universal, but it is mine.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>He’s just sitting numbly at his desk. Not moving, not recording, not even really thinking (except that he is, and that’s the problem). First it was the worms. Jane Prentiss, or whatever it was that she had become. The worms, hiding behind every wall, under the floor beneath their feet. It was terrifying, that the supernatural wasn’t just out there, but in here. But it was one time. They’d survived. It was over.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Except that it wasn’t. The </span>
  <span>NotPerson</span>
  <span>, it’s here. It had taken Sasha, and they hadn’t even noticed. Who knows how long, and it’s not her. (How many conversations? How many confidences?) And it’s not her.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Vaguely, he registers that his heart is beating so fast it’s hurting his chest. He’s numb, just sitting in his chair. Thoughts crawling through the molasses that is his brain at the speed of light. He hears a knock on the door, the noise not even seeming real. Before he can process what it means (after he spins countless ways to get the person to go away, each just as impossible as the last), the door is pushed open. Sasha pokes her head in.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve got that follow up you asked for. Where do you want it?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon just looks at her, a spike of white-hot terror surging through his veins, not sure he could form words if his life depended on it. Mustering the last dregs of strength, he gestures to his desk.</span>
  
</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at the papers for what seems like hours. Static roars in his ears. How many times? How long? (He’d trusted her. She was the first to get written off the suspect list.) His breaths come faster and faster. Is this it? Is he dying? Another knock on the door. (Please. Help me. I don’t know what’s happening.)</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>From far away, he hears Martin. “Jon? Sasha said something was wrong. She wouldn’t say what... Oh shit.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Suddenly Martin is there, right in front of him. It’s only then that Jon realizes that his peripheral vision has gone gray. Hesitantly, Martin sets one hand on his shoulder. “Jon?”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, it sinks in. Martin. It’s Martin. Martin, who doesn’t hate him, who hasn’t been replaced by a-a thing with unknown intentions.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“Jon. It-it's me. Can you hear me?” Martin’s voice has genuine worry in it, and Jon notices a steaming mug of tea, hastily set on his desk.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>It’s this one detail, this gesture of genuine care and concern, that does it. A single tear slips down Jon’s cheek.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>That’s it. After that he loses track of time entirely. He sobs, chest heaving for breaths that can’t come fast enough. He curls up, seeking safety and comfort in making himself as small as possible. His breaths heave, stutter, speed up, then stop completely before the cycle repeats. He cries out the fear, paranoia, and loneliness of the past year. He whimpers his fear and betrayal into Martin’s sweater. His emotions crash over him, burying him beneath the waves until he is completely spent, no energy left. Even then, the tears fall silently, tracing uneven lines down his face. It’s during this calm that he finally hears it.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay. I’m here. Everything’s okay.”</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Martin. Martin’s here.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>Jon knows he should be embarrassed, but his emotions are spent. Instead, he just takes comfort from another human being.</span>
  
</p><p>
  <span>They don’t mention it again. Martin doesn’t ask, just waits until Jon has regained his composure. Then he brings a new mug of tea, leaving it on the desk. And if he pokes his head into the office a little more often, bringing tea with him, well they don’t talk about that either. And when everything goes to hell in a handbasket, Jon takes a sliver of comfort knowing that Martin is still around.</span>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for coming on this journey with me! It feels good being back in the writing groove. Hope you enjoyed! :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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